By: Mia Palencia
A fragile bloom awakens with the dawn,
drenched in the morning’s quiet dew.
Its fragrance whispers through the air,
its petals kiss the dark blue sky,
yet bend beneath the softest breeze.
In silence, it sways with grace,
with colors that make the sun turn pale.
A secret woven in its veins,
unseen by those who pass its wall.
With every touch, it leans, it folds,
yet still it stands despite the raging storm.
It fades with time, in the wind, it wilts away,
but even so, its essence lingers everywhere.
But tell me, in its quiet fall,
do you see what I see at all?
I’m not talking about a flower.
The Scribes 